The man she had known as Artanthos leaned over her. Sorcery had split the flesh of his face – the touch of chaos, she recognized. A fiercer touch than what she could have survived. She knew, then, in her soul, that the High Mage had willed no delay to his response. That he’d managed anything at all was ... extraordinary. She met his eyes, saw the layers of pain that still racked through the man.

‘Sil...’

‘Korlat?’

‘Woman,’ the Tiste Andii said, the word slurred but audible, ‘this man . . .’

‘Yes? He is Tayschrenn, Korlat. The part of me that is Nightchill has known for a long time. I was coming to conf—’

‘. . . thank him.’

‘What?’

‘For . . . your ... life. Thank him, woman ...’ She held still to Tayschrenn’s eyes. Dark grey, like Whiskeyjack’s. ‘Kallor – he surprised us all...’

The man winced, then slowly nodded. ‘I am sorry, Korlat. I should have seen—’

‘Yes. Me, too. And Brood.’

She could feel horse hooves drumming the earth beneath her, the vibration rising up to settle into her bones.

A dirge. Drums, a lost sound. Horses, driven hard . . . knowing nothing of the reason, yet on they come. Closer. Mindless, yet filled with the urgency of incomprehensible masters.

But death has already ridden across this hilltop.

Knowing nothing of reason.

My love.

He is yours, now, Hood . . . do you smile?

My love is . . . yours . . .

Brave and magnificent as it was, Itkovian’s mount was faltering. With dawn still two bells away, Gruntle had roused him with uncharacteristic curtness. ‘Something’s gone wrong,’ he’d growled. ‘We must ride for Coral, friend.’

The Grey Swords had not stopped for the night – Itkovian had watched them for as long as he could, until the night’s gloom took them from his vision. The Shield Anvil had elected to ride to Whiskeyjack’s support. He had thought himself indifferent to the decision, and to what their departure signified, yet bleakness filled his heart, and the sleep that eventually came to him was troubled. After Gruntle’s rough awakening, he sought to reflect upon the source of his restlessness, but it eluded him.

Saddling his horse, Itkovian had paid little attention to Gruntle and his legion, and only when he swung himself up onto his mount and gathered the reins did he note that the Daru and his followers waited – on foot.

Itkovian had frowned at Gruntle. ‘Mortal Sword, what do you intend?’

The large man grimaced, then said, ‘For this journey, swiftness is required. For this journey,’ he repeated, glancing at a fiercely scowling Stonny Menackis, ‘Trake risks the heart of his power.’

‘Not my god!’ Stonny snapped.

Gruntle offered her a sad smile, ‘No, alas. You will have to join Itkovian, and simply ride. We’ll not wait for you, but perhaps you will keep up with us ... for a while.’

Itkovian had not understood any of this. ‘Sir,’ he said to Gruntle, ‘will you travel by warren?’